The Conte Duke
by thekeeperofwords
Summary: One-shot, the views of Roger of Conte in the days before his first death. rr!


(Hey everyone, I'm back!!! Well I've just gone over all my stories and saw that many of them were unfinished. It's disgusting. But I can't add a chapter (to any of them) right now, cuz ff.net wont let me do a search so I can see where I am. In the meantime, I'm writing a little ONE SHOT do get me back in the swing of things. It's very doubtful that it will be any more than a one shot, insuring against more unfinished work. As always, enjoy and review!!!)

Myles studied Alanna carefully over the chess board and sighed. The purple eyes that met his held a steely gleam that he had seen there on several occasions lately. He frowned, rolling a pawn between his fingers.

"I have no _proof_, Alan. He's too clever to be caught easily. All I have--all _you_ have-- is coincidence. You cannot accuse a man of high treason on coincidence."

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Roger of Conte smiled as he replaced the Queen's wax image under the fountain. He moved on to the silk bag of other images.

"Just a little longer, my dear Lianne," he proclaimed. "And then _you_, Roald. And my wonderful cousin Jonathan. All of you will cease to be annoyances to me. Even Alan of Trebond…"

The Duke carefully activated all the protection spells on his workroom and made his way into the bedchamber where he had placed his outfit for that night on the bed. It was one of his favorites: A billowing, full-sleeved white shirt, royal blue tunic, black hose, and a pale silver cape that topped-off the appearance. It was an outfit fit for a king. _An outfit made for _me, he though.

After dressing, Roger scrutinized himself in the mirror, and liked what he saw. He knew he was what all the woman wanted, and felt no shame in displaying himself proudly. His neat, brown-black hair and beard were trimmed short, his eyes were a light sapphire, his lips carved with precision. There was a knock at the door.

"Delia, you look gorgeous," Roger declared as he offered the brunette his arm, and led her into his suite.

"It's nothing, your Grace," Delia said meekly, fingering the embroidery on her cream colored silk dress. "I pale in comparison to yourself."

Roger smiled. He always expected compliments like these. "Nonsense, girl. A woman like you could never pale in comparison to anybody. You are glowing and radiant. You will light up the room, and steal every man's heart. Including Jonathan's."

Delia's head snapped up. "I didn't know he would attend. With the Queen as she is…Besides, he remains inattentive to my whims." She sniffed.

"Patience, my love. You will return, but it is up to you to lure him in. Tonight, at the ball. I will see you there."

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Roger firmly believed that he was put in the world for two purposes: to be king, and to be swooned over. The latter, of course, is why he enjoyed such balls so much. As the Duke of Conte examined the banquet halls, his eyes roved over many ladies' eyes watching him hopefully. He smiled to no one in particular, pretending to be absorbed in what the king was saying. He got up to offer Christine of Larmuth a dance. All eyes were on him.

_This is how it should be_, he told himself. _No one admires Jonathan or Roald in this way._

As he walked onto the dance floor, Roger's eyes came to halt on Delia, who had been watching him solemnly. After his dance he approached her.

"Delia, you know it won't look good if I give you any special attention," he muttered.

Her lips formed a pout. "Why do we have to be a secret, Roger?" she asked.

"There is no 'we'" he insisted, clenching his fists. "There is a you, and there is a me. At the moment we both serve the exact same purpose, for two different groups of people. If you ever want to be my consort, it is very important that there be no one against us!" He turned around so fast that his cape made a distinct snapping noise. Many women looked toward him. He smiled.

Alanna also watched him, though not with the simpering, savoring expressions adorning so many of the court women. Her eyes were cold and calculating.

_He cannot be accused of high treason on coincidence_, she thought. _With so many here worshipping the ground he walks on, how can he be accused of high treason at all?_

(A/n: mmk I have no idea where that was going. The whole idea sounded a lot better in my head. It was kinda supposed to portray how much he loved himself and how he's so frickin popular and so frickin evil.)


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